For The Taking
by Kittiko-Blues
Summary: "After downing a few shots at the bar and striking up a conversation with one another, they all agreed upon trying their luck in a poker game..." Oneshot.


**I got the lightbulb to write this from a line I used in my fic ****_Mind's_****_Transparent Eye_****. I love Jonathan, and I'm a little curious as to the extent of the poker game he and the Americans played on the barge, so...viola. :P And although I know he's sitting literally right beside them, Chamberlin wasn't included because I couldn't find the right place for him in this particular fic. **

**As one can imagine, I am again relying on the novel for this fic. I'm not gonna lie, it does clarify some things much better than reading the movie script (such as the fate of Jon's parents). Plus it adds elements not seen or touched on enough in the film itself or its script. It's worth the read if anyone picks it up, I promise. ;)**

**Also, I'm a TERRIBLE poker player, so I did my best to make sure I used the right terms to describe the game. :P  
Daniels, Henderson, Burns, Jonathan/The Mummy: (c) Stephen Sommers**

**For The Taking**

They had just sat down to start the game. Liquor-filled glasses and money littered the table, the deck vibrated with the sound of bar music and hardly a sound came off the calm Nile waters. The _Sudan_ was slowly coming to life as night descended upon it, everyone from the Bedouins to the servers to the tourists finding their niche somewhere on the gently-cruising river barge. After downing a few shots at the bar and striking up a conversation with one another, they all agreed upon trying their luck in a poker game, something to keep their boredom at bay and their amusement high. Hell, one of them would even have the chance of making an extra hundred bucks or more.

Burns was about to cut the deck, and Daniels and Henderson were sizing up Jonathan as he pulled some loose change out of his pocket. So far, it was a mutual, uneventful affair between the three Americans and their British counterpart.

Until that guy O'Connell decided to drop by for a hot minute. He looked taken aback after learning that his travel buddy Jonathan had blabbed to the Americans that they were on their way to The City of the Dead, his dismay growing even more in knowing the Americans were going there too. Only after Daniels talked him into a five-hundred dollar bet on who would get there first did O'Connell's sour look finally begin to lift, as if he knew he would be the one to win it. After leaving Jonathan with a less than friendly reminder to keep his gob shut from that moment forward, he made himself scarce, leaving the poker party to go about its business once more.

Of course, the three Southern-bred yanks couldn't help but be intrigued slightly. "So why'd he seem so damn surprised that we're off to Hamunaptra as well?" Henderson asked, grinding noisily on a tobacco chew.

"Yeah, he looked like a spooked white-tailed deer starin' down the barrel of a Winchester 1873!" Daniels snickered.

Jonathan took a sip of his drink, cleared his throat loudly. "Oh, well, you know, he's uh, how do you say...late to the party, so to speak."

Henderson raised an eyebrow. "Ya mean he don't know that there's another group lookin' fer it?"

"Guess not, especially when you think you're the only one with a secret no one else knows," Jonathan shrugged, chuckling weakly but stopping when no one else shared the humor in the remark.

"Guess _you_ let that secret outta the bag then, didn't ya?" Burns smirked, adjusting his wire-rims.

Jonathan seemed to shrink down into his seat, took another sip of his drink. "Like the proverbial cat."

Daniels shrugged disinterestedly, swallowed down half of his drink. "Who the hell cares. We already got us a guide _and_ an Egyptologist takin' us there, so we woulda found it even without him knowin'. He ain't the only one with a secret."

That seemed to diffuse the issue, and they all returned their attention back to the game. The hands were dealt, five cards each, and a brief silence ensued as the four men studied their cards.

Remaining quiet for more than a minute was not part of Jonathan's repertoire though, especially if he was imbibed with enough cocktails that would put a lifelong lush to shame. "So, my good fellows, which part of the Land of the Free do you call your home?"

Seeing as though Daniels and Burns were too engrossed in their hands to answer right away, Henderson did so for them. "We're all Texas boys, but we got folks from all over the damn place. Daniels here got kin livin' in Louisiana."

"An' Alabama," the dark-haired tomb raider added, looking unimpressed with his current hand. "Yellerhammer's in my blood too. Same goes fer my fiancée. Huntsville gal."

"Right. There's some folks from the Dakotas in Burns's family, an' if ya can believe it, I had me an uncle or cousin from Mass'chusetts that fought fer the Union in the Civil War."

"Yeah, an' all my folks served under Jeff Davis," Daniels slipped in, winking subtlety.

Henderson nodded and held out his hands. "Like I said, all over the damn place!" he ended with a dry laugh.

Jonathan nodded, rubbed the back of his neck. "Ah. Quite interesting."

"What about you?" Burns asked Jonathan.

Jonathan answered with a toothy grin, "Why merry old England, of course."

"No shit, son. He means _where_ in England," Daniels put in curtly.

Jonathan's face fell in embarrassment, produced a weak chuckle. "Oh, my mistake. London, old boy."

Henderson rolled his eyes, smirked amusedly. "Can't get much more British than that."

They set down their cards, none of them with any really good hands. Despite that, Burns happened to have the winning hand, and so the first round went to him. As the second round started up and the bets were placed, Jonathan continued his string of innocent questioning. "What brings you fine gents across the pond anyway, if I may ask?"

"Prohibition, my friend. Jus' about every county back where we come from is all but dried up. Good excuse fer us to leave an' take a lil' tour of the world," Henderson answered, spitting out the chew and pulling out a cigar.

"An' not havin' to worry about gittin' cuffed over a lil' ole drink," Daniels muttered more to himself than anyone else. A good, stiff glass of whiskey was among the things Daniels held a special place in his heart for.

Jonathan angled his head curiously, rubbing the back of his neck again. "Haven't you jobs though? Or a position you've had to leave in order to come here just for those reasons?"

Henderson shrugged and took a deep drag off the cigar, a concentrated stream of gray smoke pouring from his mouth. "Well Johnny, everyone knows the greenbacks don't come in unless yer well is still runnin'. An' if ya got the cops sittin' on that well, ye're not makin' the supply that meets the demand, now are ya?" he said somewhat cryptically.

But Jonathan was able to put two and two together. "I say, you're not involved with such business, are you?" he asked, eyes wide. "From what I hear, it's very cutthroat."

"What, ya mean bootleggin'? Hell yes it is," Daniels answered, raising the stakes and adding several more dollars to the bet. He watched as everyone followed suit. "No one said it was easy workin', but it is easy money. When ya got plenty a' folks thirstin' fer a lil' moonshine, they'll pay whatever it takes to git their paws on it."

"Even if it means sellin' the family farm," Henderson said more out of sarcasm than pity.

"Not that we love or prefer bein' in the illegal alcohol business. It's just money, that's all," Burns added. It was more of a way to make himself feel better about engaging in bootlegging, considering he wasn't as enthusiastic about his role in it as his two friends were. He was honestly much happier living the boring life of an office clerk than a rum-runner.

"Exactly how much money do you make off it?" Jonathan asked.

Daniels abruptly dropped the cards in his lap, pointed at the Brit with an acid grin on his face. "_That_ would be none a' yer Goddamn business."

Jonathan shrunk back, threw up his hands timidly. "Sorry, guess curiosity got the better of me there."

"Yeah, right," Daniels muttered, picking up his cards again.

In an effort to take out some of the tension Daniels had brought into the discussion, Burns inquired of Jonathan casually, "Well what about you? What do you do fer a livin'?"

Jonathan sat back up, the interest in talking about himself clear on his face. "Me? Oh, why I'm...ah, I'm an archeologist. A very well known archeologist."

Daniels furrowed his brow skeptically. "Then how come I ain't never heard a' ya?"

Jonathan grinned nervously, looked down at his cards. "I guess the word hasn't quite spread yet to the States." He technically _did_ have a job in artifact finding, but Jonathan's tendencies at putting his fondness for gambling and the drink before his field work had all but destroyed his career and credibility. He wasn't surprised that the Americans didn't know much about the craze to dig up Egypt and the characters that surfaced from it (including his own tragic parents who met their deaths in a plane crash, which was blamed on a 'curse' of a disturbed tomb Mr. Carahan was helping to excavate). Jonathan wanted to salvage what was left of his reputation, even if his only audience consisted of three bored cowboys who couldn't care less about anything _not_ related to America. "Haven't you any overseas correspondents to let you know what goes on in the rest of the world?"

"Plenty," Henderson answered. "The papers are always chock-fulla ridiculous stories about dumb foreigners. Waste a' lumber, if ya ask me."

"Yellow journalism, it's a disease," Burns added with a disgusted sneer. "Spreads faster'n malaria."

Jonathan looked somewhat relieved that they knew nothing of his family's occasional front page misfortunes. The three yanks didn't seem like the types who particularly liked immersing themselves in the printed word. Their blatant obliviousness to world affairs seemed to further reinforce this conclusion in Jonathan's mind.

The cards went down again, and it was Jonathan's turn to win. His face split into a jovial grin that elicited a series of groans from the three Americans. "Lucky break," Daniels muttered bitterly, watching as Jonathan shuffled the winning bills in his hands.

"That's a bit of good fortune there!" Jonathan said cheerily, dealing a new hand.

There was no response from any of the three fortune seekers, the only audible sound being the cold flop of cards on the table as they began putting down their next set of hands.

To Jonathan's surprise (and the chagrin of the yanks), he won yet again. There was another collective grumble from the fortune hunters as he gathered his prize with a triumphant grin. "Another round, old boys?"

Henderson snorted as Daniels replied, "We ain't stoppin' yet." Truthfully though, he was ready to fold; Jonathan's lucky streak was killing his enthusiasm for the game.

"Wonderful! I don't know about you blokes, but I'm feeling very lucky all of a sudden."

Daniels rolled his eyes, exhaled a deep sigh of irritation. He had a feeling that the more rounds he played with the boozy Brit, the more his already waning patience would run thin listening to his daffy prattling. He leaned back, eyed Jonathan with a narrow stare. "Ya ever here a' the War of 1812?"

Jonathan angled his head, scratching his temple. "I'm not quite sure I have."

"Yeah, well you'll be good to know that it was the _second_ time we whipped yer tea-guzzlin' Lobsterback asses. Good ol' Andy Jackson done stuck it real good in yer craw I heard, even _after_ we had already won," Daniels explained, swallowing down the last of his drink.

There really were no words to describe the confused, taken-aback expression on Jonathan's face. "I'm sorry, I'm not quite sure what you mean, old boy."

"It means ya ain't walkin' away from this table a winner, Johnny," Henderson clarified. "Yer plow's gonna git cleaned good, jus' you wait." When it was clear that Jonathan finally got the hint from Daniels's historical analogy, the game resumed.

But it did not deter Jonathan from continuing to enjoy himself. He went on talking animatedly, all his drinks now consumed. "You know, Egypt is quite a lovely country. I've been here for years, and I've always wondered why it's so necessary to dig it all up. I mean, couldn't we just sit back and enjoy all the beautiful terrain and expertly made artifacts instead of...well, selling them and destroying the history here?" He stopped, rethought what he had just said. _Oh trifles, I'm already quite guilty of that_. "Goodness, I sound like Evy now."

"Who's Evy?" Burns asked, brow furrowed.

"Oh Evy, bless her heart. She's my sister, baby sister actually. The old girl's got quite a head on her shoulders. Very smart, a bit naïve, good sense of humor." Jonathan looked around, wondering if there were any waiters about that he could ask for another drink. "She's all I have left right now. I'm afraid I haven't been the best sibling towards her lately though. She's been rather annoyed with me recently." Jonathan's countenance seemed to fall, as if a great, invisible weight had been placed on his thin shoulders. "Can't say I blame her either."

It sounded to the Americans like Jonathan was heading down that inevitable road towards a sympathy vote, and they weren't about to slide into that trap. They waited for him to play his current hand with mostly solemnly-set expressions, but all they got was more gab than game. "All I want to do is make Evy proud. I don't want her to feel like the younger sister of a world-class blighter." Jonathan put his chin in his hand, sighed quietly. "I want to be the person she used to know, the one she has no qualms about being seen with. I've been told that I am quite the dullard to be around."

"Jesus Johnny, take it easy, will ya? You sound like ye're in love with her," Henderson interrupted, his nose wrinkled in mild disgust. "Throw yer hand down. We're waitin' on ya." Then Henderson's face suddenly contorted into a mask of confusion. "I thought you said you was a world famous bone collector anyway, din't ya?"

"Not bones, old boy. Things of value," Jonathan answered, his train of thought still stopped at the station connected to his sister. "She's the scholar and I'm the digger. I bring something back, she looks it over and tells me just how important or unimportant it is. She abhors that I try to sell everything I find, but I can't help myself. If it's valuable, then I want to know just _how _valuable."

"That's a swell tale ye're spinnin', it truly is. Now will ya shut the hell up an' play the hand?" Daniels grumbled, feeling an enhanced sense of warmth on the back of his neck from a combination of his rising temper and the amount of liquor settling in him. "Ya think maybe yer poor lil' sister is sick a' ya because of that motor of a mouth on ya?"

Although inebriated in his own degree, Jonathan still picked up on the dark-haired yank's snippy tone, but didn't feel deflated by it. "I say, old boy, you sound rather bothered. Perhaps you should go take a spell on the deck? Get some fresh air?"

That caused Burns and Henderson to snicker rather loudly, even though they tried not to add the fuel to the fire that now had Daniels's face flaming. "Maybe I can give ya a blanket if ya get cold too. Ya know how those breezes off the water can git!" Henderson teased. Chuckles and knee-slapping abounded, but Daniels was not amused.

In fact, he had crossed that fine line between slightly irritated and downright pissed off. As the other three men around him continued laughing their asses off, Daniels calmly reached into one of two holsters on his belt, then quickly whipped out his M1917 revolver, slamming it on the table. That promptly stunned the others into silence as Daniels went about emptying the bullet chamber. "Ya know," he began in a darkly placid manner, "I'm sick a' playin' poker. I can tell Johnny here is too, since he refuses to play his hand. So how about a lil' Russian Roulette instead?" He left one bullet in the chamber and clicked it back into place, thumping the gun down in front of the startled Brit. Daniels leaned forward on one arm and gave Jonathan a malicious smirk, nodding towards the firearm. "You can start. Sound good to you, _old boy_?"

Jonathan swallowed nervously, stark-white with fear. Any normal person would think that Daniels was seriously overreacting to a little light humor from a bunch of happy drunks. Jonathan didn't want to be the one to tell him that though. So, obediently, he played his hand.

The four men played a few more rounds, and ultimately it was Burns, not Jonathan, who ended up pocketing the most money thanks his own streak of luck and a full house in the final round. A good many drinks had been consumed and pure boredom killed off the remaining spirit to continue with the game.

Jonathan stumbled off to his room while the three Americans took their business to the stern deck. Henderson chain-smoked on his Tampa Havanas while Daniels leaned over the railing to clear his whiskey-logged head. Burns was shuffling and counting his clams, stuffing them into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket. It was hard _not_ to notice the satisfied smile on his usually modest face.

Daniels was too flush with liquor to be supportive of his friend's fortune. He put his Stetson on his head, crossed his arms over the broad build of his chest. "We git back to Cairo, ya damn well better buy me a big, fat, golden souvenir with all that _dinero_ ya pocketed tonight."

Burns ignored the tone of his friend's voice, answered simply with no sarcasm, "What's mine is yours, Dave."

"An' _mine_," Henderson whined, feeling left out.

"Hold on now, fellas. Remember where we're goin', right?" Burns said, raising an eyebrow. "We get to Hamunaptra, you won't even need my winnin's to get yerselves a souvenir. You can buy the whole damn country if ya want."

There was a hum of snickering agreement amongst the three men, and it faded into the wind that came off the Nile waters as their minds drifted from winning roadhouse poker games and smarmy desert bets to becoming richer than Rockefeller himself.


End file.
